Question And Answer
by Aliit Vodeson
Summary: Asked to speak about his experience as a soldier, John finds himself facing a challenge more difficult than any other, even living with Sherlock. Q&A with six year olds. Cutsie one-shot


Words – school, flashback, lights

"My name is Doctor John Watson." I smile over the microphone stand. "I'm very glad to be here with you toda-" I pause when the brown haired boy in the second row sticks his hand high into the air. "Questions already? Wow." I get the laugh I'm hoping for from the teachers on the side. "What do you want to know?"

"If you're a doctor, how can you be a solider? Miss Ta said you were a solider but you said you're a doctor and doctor's can't be soldiers because doctors save people and make them all better and soldiers fight wars and kill people." He stops, takes a deep breathe, and continues talking a mile a minute. "So you can't be solider and a doctor because then you'd have to kill them and then try to make them live again and you'd never get to do either because you're saving them and killing them at the same time."

I put up my hand to stem the oncoming flood of words. "Whoa, whoa. I think I get the point of this. You can't be a doctor and a solider because doctors save people and soldiers fight people. Am I right?" The kid nods. "Well, you're not fully correct. I am a doctor, and I'm a solider. I'm a former army captain, I served in Afghanistan after graduating from medical school."

"But how are you able to be both?" This time the question comes from a girl in the back of the room.

"Military doctors aren't like regular doctors. We're part of the army, so we are soldiers. We don't fight like other soldiers do though. We help to make other soldiers better. When I was in Afghanistan, I fixed broken bones, cut out bullets and treated burns. Military doctors make sure their fellow soldiers get better. So yes, you can be a doctor and a soldier."

Several other hands go up. I point at the boy who I think was first up, making sure that I note the other kids. "Was it hot in Afga, Afgi, whatever that place was?"

"Afghanistan." I nod. "It was very hot. There's not a lot of rain, and the whole country's a desert, so there's not a lot of shade."

The questions keep coming. The group is a combination of students from year 1, 2 and 4 so the questions range from simple, "did you get sunburned", to lengthy, "while you were over in the war, did you ever have to save an enemy", and complicated, "what do you do now?" I do my best to answer all of their questions, even the ones that give me pause, like "why did you become a soldier?"

Eventually, Miss Ta signals that our time is over. "Thank you Doctor Watson. I'm sure the children learned a lot today."

"Thank you for having me."

A couple of the kids come over to give me a hug, one shows me the picture of her dad in uniform, and half a dozen even want their picture taken with me. I'm chatting with a parent who helps out with the year 1 class as the last of the group leaves the library.

"Doctor Watson?"

The parent thanks me again and lets me turn around. One of the older boys, probably a year 4, is waiting with the obvious signs of a question waiting to be asked. "Yes?"

"I was wondering, I mean, I wanted to ask but you don't have to answer if you don't feel comfortable. I wasn't sure if you would want to, because Mother says I shouldn't ask questions that make people feel uncomfortable. So if you don't want to answer, you don't have to."

"Why don't you ask me, and then I'll see if I can answer."

He shuffles his feet. "While you were a soldier, did any of your friends die?"

I think of Jeff Barns, who died just two hours after receiving a letter that his wife had given birth to their first child. Mary Anderson, a loud black woman who simply didn't make it out of the operating room. The ones I didn't know as well. Major Jenkins, Corporal Thomas, the American consultant whose name I couldn't remember. The ones who'd died under my watch; Daniel, the Michael twins, Chris with his loud jokes and louder opinion. Countless brothers in arms who had died too far away for me to have saved but I still blamed myself for anyways.

"Yes."

"Can I ask how?"

"A lot of ways."

A teacher pulls the boy away, thanking me again for coming. I wait until I'm alone in the room to sit down on a chair and let myself cry. Too many friends, friends buried and friends lost. Too many to count, too many to remember them all. Far too many.


End file.
